


if you are an anchor

by aestheticisms (R_Vienna)



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Past and Present, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5577412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Vienna/pseuds/aestheticisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with Saruhiko Fushimi is that he wants so, so much--and the problem with that, is, Misaki Yata gives him so, so much.</p><p>(Saru gets sick and Yata wonders how long it's gonna be until they break.) </p><p>for sarumi secret santa 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you are an anchor

**Author's Note:**

> written for sarumi secret santa 2015, for ridia! ^qqqq^

**there is a you and a me**

_(but there is never an us)_

* * *

 

“Hey, Saru.”

Yata’s fingers drape over Saruhiko’s comforter, over the sheets and blanket. The boy pulls himself up next to him, and they contort themselves into something resembling comfort. The futon is too small for the both of them together, Saruhiko’s feet dangle off the edge. Yata fits perfectly, buries himself in the crook of Saruhiko’s neck.

“Misaki.”

It’s a quiet little thing, barely above an irritated whisper. He’s still sick, voice hoarse and throat sore. He’s spent his day swaddled up in blankets, sipping soup vehemently. As if that would help lessen the burden.

“Hey. Ease up.”

Yata moves his hand from the sheets to saruhiko’s chest, presses down over where the black hole that doubled as his heart resides. He says helpful things, as if that would make things better.

They’re kids with a death wish, their peers laughed. And it’s fine, Yata thinks, as long as they are together.

“I’m dying.”

“No, you’re not.”

They’re fifteen.

If Saruhiko died, Yata wonders what he would do. He would probably fight to the end of the line, despite his distaste for work. He wouldn’t lift a finger unless it benefited him, That’s the kind of person he is. (Maybe it’s because he hasn’t found something worth fighting for.)

Saruhiko coughs loudly and turns around, his back against Yata’s face now. He’s shaking, and he fumbles for his phone in the dark. His glasses are on the makeshift nightstand next to the couch. There’s a bright light, a couple of beeping noises; then, silence. At night, their world is the quiet overhang and the big garage, the two floors and the tall, metal ladder. Blankets all a mess, dirty laundry littered about, takeout containers, and empty soda pop bottles. Glass and plastic. The place has seen better days.

“Did the soup help any?”

It’s like talking to a brick wall. Saruhiko makes a noise of discontent. He’s always huffing. It’s funny sometimes. sometimes it’s aggravating. Yata’s used to it by now, they’ve been together for a long time. He doesn’t even complain when Saruhiko says _Miiii. sa. ki._ in his favorite condescending tone. He might chalk that up to the fact his best friend was sick and (not) dying and he was only allowing this to not be an issue this one time. It’s a gift. Consider it a privilege. A once in a lifetime opportunity.

Yata sighs. He doesn’t do that often. He sits up and rubs his cheeks, brings the color back to his face. After that, he’s off the couch, but not before telling Saruhiko to take up as much space as he wanted. The sick were blessed. He didn’t say that, though, lest he incur his wrath.

“I’m going to the convenience store.”

“With what money.” Is a deadpan snort.

Yata tries to smooth over the very pressing question with a laugh. Don’t worry about it, Saru! is a pat on the back that lingers too much for it to be considered completely platonic, but Yata is fifteen and he’s stupid–stupidly in love with the cat made boy bundled up like a sad microwave burrito. Money wasn’t a problem, baby.

It definitely was a problem. He’s scrounging up change from old school uniform pockets and from under cushions, he’s salvaging any coin he can muster from the gutters. When he has enough to secure a bento with at least three basic food groups, he heads over to the corner mart and tries to not feel out of place. He doesn’t hide under his layers, his hoodie is unzipped and his hood is down. He owns this pocket of the universe.

At least, he owns one thousand, seven hundred, and sixteen yen worth of this universe. Yata slides the crumpled bills and the dirty coins across the counter and the cashier doesn’t say a word. That makes him feel some sort of way. Maybe it’s an uneasiness. It’s not sadness. He’s gotten past the pitying looks.

He has something worth protecting. He does not need their sympathy. He smiles at the man, he’s only a couple of years older than him, but it’s weird to call him a boy when Yata’s barely hitting a meter and a half. This guy, yeah, that’s comfortable, hands him his haul in a plastic bag. He slings it on his elbow, and says goodbye.

The walk home is quiet, even more so than the walk there. The streets are dirty and dark, streetlights slowly starting to cut through the night. There’s not a lot of traffic on this side of the city, and for that, Yata is grateful. He zips and weaves through the very small crowd of pedestrians scattered about. His skateboard carves a path out of asphalt and curbs. His cheeks are flushed and raw; bright red, the color almost competes with the orange of his hair. His beanie slides off his head, he has to pull it down a couple of times before he reaches the run down strip mall that masqueraded as their kingdom. His headphones drone out some killer beats, a mix tape Saruhiko filched a week ago. (A mix tape swore did not steal, because despite it all, he knows Yata cares about little things like morality–)

He gets to the garage safe and sound. Yata kicks off his sneakers and props up his skateboard against the entryway. It’s still quiet and dark, but Saruhiko’s glasses reflect a lit screen. He’s finally awake, and yata’s heart does a backflip.

“I’m home.”

“Welcome back.”

Monotone, and still, wavering. He says welcome back like he’s been waiting up for him, but he fumbles with the words like he’s never had someone to say that too. Saruhiko says it like he’s been practicing in the dark for the moment Yata stepped over into their small world. Yata grins, it’s a gesture that stretches from ear to ear.

“Don’t get too excited.”

Saruhiko’s hair is plastered against his forehead. It’s messy and long, slick with sweat. Yata rushes to his side and presses an awkward hand against Saruhiko’s head. Yata’s hands are too big, fingers stubby but palm wide, and Saruhiko makes a big deal out of being annoyed. They both don’t say anything when Saruhiko leans into his touch.

“Your fever’s gone down!” Yata doesn’t add a (thank god, we wouldn’t be able to afford that) and instead decides to take out a bento and push it into Saruhiko’s unexpecting hands.

“You gotta eat. If you wanna kick this flu’s ass, you gotta get stronger!”

“Right, of course. Thank you for the corner market cure.” Saruhiko rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue but he shoves the pieces of sashimi and onigiri down his throat like he hasn’t eaten in days. (Knowing him, this could very much be the case.) This, however, is only after Yata gets off of the couch, climbs up to the second floor, and leaves him alone for a half hour, loudly announcing he was going to play a game.

He didn’t, and half of it was because he remembered Saruhiko was working on a side quest on their joint game file, and if he moved their avatar even so much as a tile, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. He surfs the web and browses through jackets. Maybe, they could save up enough to get some for next winter. Their parkas were enough for now, but something new, that would be nice. Yata smiles at the thought. Maybe Saruhiko would stop getting so sick.

Yata bookmarks stuff he likes.

Saruhiko mumbles from the floor.

“…Misaki.”

Yata doesn’t fight him, not tonight. He slides down the ladder and scratches the back of his head when he sees that his partner in crime has returned to his previous state. He’s curled up, back to him, face towards the wall.

“…”

“What was that?”

“Shut up.”

(Thanks.)

The lights are still off and it’s hard to see in the dark but they fumble underneath the sheets. If Yata catches his god awful illness, then so be it. That’ll have to take him first, because he won’t let go of his hand.

(Good night, Saru.)

.

.

.

Yata doesn’t hate a lot of things. Honest. He doesn’t like winter. He doesn’t like his name–

No, actually.

Yata hates his name. Not Yata, no, that was fine. Yatagarasu. Even better. HOMRA’s dragon, come out of the ashes in fire and steel, riding the current on a chariot made of vinyl and four little wheels. He takes the city alongside his brothers, they’re family now, that’s what HOMRA is to him, and flies. The streets are an endless expanse and he lives for the one, the air in his lungs and the shaky inhale, and the two, the kick off and the sparks that fly when his skateboard grinds down a stairway railing.

Yata is the present, it’s the future.

Misaki is the past. It haunts him, clings to him like leader’s cigarette smoke, it’s in his clothes and his hair and it smells like deceit. He sees it in static and white noise, in his peripheral and in his sleep. He thinks this is his punishment for some god awful cosmic crime he committed in his sleep, because there’s nothing that stings more than this. “Isn’t that right,” tablets and phones sing, bright green and gold, “–Misaki?”

It’s really not his style. Yata hates the color green.

He fucking hates it.

“It’s Yata, what’s up?”

There’s a squabble on the other side of the line, Yata motions for the group to go on ahead of him, Anna looks at him with big, red eyes. She arches a brow, and he tries to gloss over any worry with a wave of his hand, and a small bow. He’ll catch up soon. Promise. She looks over at Mikoto Suoh, and then back at Yata. A small nod of acknowledgement before his king’s charge continues her steady pace.

He rides away, into a warped sunset. The skyline is red-orange, the clouds are aubergine. Skyscrapers look like rotting teeth, capped by silver and gold. There is nothing kind about winter. It’s depressing, but Yata keeps moving forward. What is bright and warm one second, will be gray and dull in the next. It was only a matter of time.

He doesn’t like winter. He hates winter.

It reminds him of too many things. He’s stronger now, though, He has to remind himself. But was he strong enough to fight ghosts? _Mi. sa. ki._

He skids to a stop, he’s back at the bar. There’s someone waiting for him outside the door, he’s conspicuous as all hell, completely out of place.

A blue bullet in a red sky.

Izumo Kusanagi’s phone call could only do so much.

Yata clenches his fists.

Saruhiko smiles. It’s not sincere, it hasn’t been for a very, very long time. (But god, if he let him–Yata would wait forever, he could he could he could, and that made his stomach churn and blood boil.)

It’s hard to take him seriously–he’s got a knife in-between his fingers and a terrible runny nose, but it’s Saruhiko Fushimi and he’s in front of HOMRA, like a disgruntled spirit.

“Stupid, what are you doing here?”

“I was just in the area.”

He sniffles. It’s really pathetic.

Yata runs his hand through his hair and gives him an incredulous look. _You’re being stupid and ridiculous and I hate you,_ they’re all on the tip of his tongue but all he can think about is winters past and the futon with ratty sheets and down pillows.

All he can think about is Saru’s hand in his.

“If you’re here to pick a fight, you know you got one.”

There’s fire, and it feels like home, in his skin and in his bones. He’ll breathe out a new miracle, Yata’s skateboard, under his foot, goes front and back, back and forth, like it’s itching for something exciting.

He doesn’t like this very much either but the way Saruhiko twirls his knives, it makes his skin crawl and his hands shake.

“Indulge me.”

.

They end up back to back behind a grimy alleyway, licking their wounds and nursing their egos.Saruhiko clicks his tongue. tch. tch. tch. and Yata threatens to knock him over their head.

Their love, this is it–eighteen and stupid, but not with each other.

“Hey, Saruhiko.”

“Misaki.”

Condescension, like he wasn’t freezing to death. Certainty, like Yata didn’t hate his name.

“Fuck off.”

(Love you, too.)


End file.
